In Love and War
by ConcertiGrossi
Summary: As a young man, Weatherby Swann meets the handsome, debonair Vicomte de Chevalle - a story of love, sex, marriage and politics. Written for Livejournal's Merry Pirates Fic Exchange. Swann/Chevalle


**Author's Note:**

This was written for a fic exchange on livejournal, in the merrypirates community. The recipient requested Swann/Chevalle, and I complied. :)

* * *

Prologue - February, 1717

The Duchesse du Maine might grow older, but her lovers seemed to stay exactly the same age.

Her current toy, the dashing young Vicomte de Chevalle, was seen escorting her to every smart occasion in Paris, but it raised no eyebrows. Society was quite used to seeing her on the arm of someone almost twenty-five years her junior.

Even his choice in her caused no comment. A man interested in marriage would have chosen, well, an unmarried debutante. A man interested in advancement would have chosen someone with preferments to give. A man interested in politics would have chosen someone who was on better terms with Louis XV's Regent, the Duc d'Orleans. But it was well-known that Chevalle's only interest was in elite society and glittering parties, and those were the Duchesse's specialities.

It wouldn't last forever, he knew - indeed, he was getting a bit long in the tooth to keep the Duchesse's attention much longer - but, for now, he had his _pied a terre_ in Paris, and his estate in Le Havre, and he was having a very good time.

April, 1717

For all that it was April in Paris, the ballroom of the English ambassador's residence was stiflingly hot. The heat of all those packed bodies in an enclosed space combined with the candle-flames, gave the atmosphere a feverish, tropical feel that lent itself well to seduction and intrigue. The Duchesse du Maine and the Vicomte de Chevalle were stepping their way through the _menuet_ when Chevalle's attention was captured by a young man standing near the grand entrance.

That a handsome young buck would arrest Chevalle's gaze would surprise no one; the Vicomte's ecumenical taste in bed-partners was well-known. But this young man could not possibly be called handsome: he was in his early twenties, and gawky. He stood against the wall as if he were propping it up, his face stuck in the rictus that takes over when someone is supremely unsure of his current situation.

And to top it all off, he was both expensively and badly dressed.

"You are not thinking of me, Chevalle," said the Duchesse.

"My every thought is of you, madame, how can you doubt it?" He smiled as he delivered the well-rehearsed gallantry.

She laughed, taking the compliment as lightly as it was meant. "And who has caught your eye tonight?"

"That awkward Englishman by the door... the one with the dreadful suit."

She glanced over discreetly. "Him? You cannot be serious."

"The charm of the naïf. You are not immune to it, as I well know."

"But he's so very English!"

"Ah, you forget, we are allies now." The music ended, and he bowed to her.

"A sure sign the Barbarians are at the Gates." She rolled her eyes. "I leave you to your _rosbif_, Chevalle..."

He grinned and began to make his way across the room.

---

Weatherby Swann, Junior Assistant Undersecretary to His Majesty's Ambassador to Paris, pasted himself against the wall at the edge of the throng. He could not possibly have felt more out of place. He'd never had the knack for navigating large parties like this one and had always vaguely admired those who could manage them adroitly. He'd already exchanged greetings with the people he knew from his work at the embassy, but hadn't been in Paris long enough to form any other acquaintances. Regardless, the gathering was a sight to behold. The cream of Paris society danced and drank and flirted in these halls, dressed in their finest and veritably laden with jewels.

The figure ended, and Weatherby watched a young man detach himself from his partner. He was slender, impeccably-attired and handsome; the very image of a French courtier. How he envied the comely youth! So self-assured, so at ease... so beautiful.

And he was heading this way.

The hot flush began spreading through his cheeks, and he knew, he just knew that the instant this young Adonis began to speak to him, he would lapse entirely into stuttering.

He'd always known he'd had these ... tendencies. But in the devout circles his parents moved in, such scandalous behavior was confined to the Molly Houses and other Pits of Sin in London, and was surely nothing he wanted to emulate. He'd assumed that, once he married, such passions could be easily transferred to his wife.

He was wrong.

Make no mistake, he had the utmost respect for the lady he'd married a scant few weeks before he'd come to France. She was kind, and very intelligent; she wasn't a beauty, but something about her caught his eye on their first meeting, and he fancied they'd become good friends.

But oh, he knew now that she would never heat his blood the way this slouching French fop did at this very moment.

The young man greeted him rapidly in French, and bowed slightly.

Sure enough, the stuttering came upon him and impaired his already-terrible grasp of the language. "_Bonjour... Je suis tres, ah, tres desolee, mais..._"

The nobleman smiled. "My English, I am told, is perfect, if you would feel more comfortable."

"Oh! Yes, thank you very much." Swann gushed with palpable relief. "I'm so sorry, but I missed your name before."

"I am the Vicomte de Chevalle," he repeated. "And you?" The Englishman evidently needed prompting.

"Goodness, I do apologize. My name is Swann. Weatherby Swann. I am attached to the Embassy."

Chevalle stifled a smile. "So I gathered. Are you enjoying Paris, Mr. Swann?"

"Ah yes, very much so."

The silence began to loom large between them as Swann searched for something more to say.

Chevalle came to his rescue. "Have you been in Paris long?"

"I just arrived."

"I see."

Another lull.

At this point, Swann was so on edge that he gave up all hope of saying anything clever enough to interest the Vicomte. He blurted out, "I'm afraid I must... do excuse me."

Chevalle watched him go, unoffended but a bit confused. However, as he was never one to dwell on things, he merely shrugged and rejoined the Duchesse. After all, the ways of the Briton were beyond all comprehension.

May, 1717

The Duchesse had demanded that her pet Vicomte escort her to the latest Salon of the Academy of Painting and Sculpture at the Louvre; Watteau had finally submitted his Reception Piece, and _tout le monde_ was turning out to see it. The Duchesse's tastes ran more towards the literary, and Chevalle had only the most cursory understanding of art, but it was one of those sort of events that had become _de rigueur_ for the fashionable world, and so they went.

And it was not entirely dull. The pictures were pretty, and the society was good. The Duchesse was engrossed in conversation when Chevalle noticed that same young Englishman studying the featured painting.

What a difference a change in setting made!

Swann stood without the least hint of self-consciousness or nervousness, enraptured by the image before him, and Chevalle became entranced with this little tableau. He excused himself from the group and went over to speak to him.

"Mr. Swann." He nodded.

"Monsieur le Vicomte," said Swann, bowing slightly. "How good to see you again." So engrossed was Swann was in his study, Chevalle noticed, that his stutter was gone, and he seemed almost at ease.

"It is an amazing piece, is it not?" said Chevalle.

"A masterwork beyond words. I would give anything to be capable of such brilliance."

Well! It seemed the man was not entirely mute after all! "Do you paint, Mr. Swann?"

"No. Well, yes, I do. A little. But nothing more than a child's daubings when compared to this..."

Chevalle squinted at the title: "A Pilgrimage to Cythera." His memory failed him. "Cythera... that's an island in Greece, isn't it?"

"Yes... reputed in legend to be the the nearest land to the birthplace of Aphrodite. Hence the couples, d'you see..." He began to gesture animatedly. "Each has progressed a little more down the path of Love. The first is merely flirting, but the second have stood to go to the ship, and the third still further down the path..."

Chevalle tilted his head as he gazed at the painted figures. Frankly, he'd never been given to any kind of in-depth analysis of any _objets d'art_, but that only increased his admiration for those who understood these things.

"And his use of color! Such bright, vivid hues! Very reminiscent of the style of the Venetian Renaissance..." He glanced over at Chevalle, as if looking for confirmation.

Chevalle raised his eyebrows, and smiled apologetically. "I confess, I merely thought it beautiful."

Swann smiled with a touch of shyness. "It is that, too."

As it happened, Chevalle had met the Master at a previous Salon, and on the spur of the moment, he asked, "Would you care to be introduced?"

"Can it be arranged? I wouldn't want to impose..."

It could be arranged, and quite easily, too. Not entirely against his will, Chevalle became caught between them: as Watteau's English was about on par with Swann's French, Chevalle found himself translating their lengthy, involved conversation. It was not as easy as he might have thought - the two men lapsed into a torrent of technical terms, but fortunately words like "chiaroscuro" and "scumble" seemed to be the same in both languages.

"One more question if I may, sir...." Swann gestured to the painting. "Are they arriving at or leaving Cythera?"

Watteau gave an enigmatic smile. "That, young man, I leave to the viewer."

They bowed as the great man's attention was claimed by yet another admirer. Swann turned towards the Vicomte. "I cannot thank you enough. Such an honor!"

Chevalle, charmed by this newly-evident self-assurance, replied, "Think nothing of it."

The ice broken, the two men were able to talk companionably for some time. Chevalle's attentions now fixed themselves on his English companion. The man's charm lay in his shyness, he decided, and the definite impression that there was a great deal more going on under the surface. He could not remember the last time he had enjoyed another's company so much.

When he returned to the Duchesse, however, she pretended to be annoyed. "You abandoned me, Chevalle. For the _rosbif_."

"Forgive me, madame." He kissed her hand. "I am deeply ashamed at my neglect."

She smiled coquettishly. "I can never stay angry at you..."

"How fortunate. For I am minded to beg a boon..."

"Yes?"

"Would you invite him to Sceaux next month?"

"To the _fête champêtre_? Out of the question!"

"Please, madame? As a particular favor to me?

"I always knew you had a taste for exotica, Chevalle, but this is going a bit far..." She pursed her lips. "Very well, but on one condition only."

"You have but to name it."

She gave a sly smile. "I am finding that Prince de Cellamare and I have many common interests."

"The Spanish Ambassador? What was that about my taste in exotica?"

She laughed. "_Touché_. But his wife is proving troublesome... would you convey some letters from me to him, from time to time?"

"In all things, I am your most devoted servant," he said, truthfully. If du Maine was already working on his replacement, then she would not be upset if his attention to her waned...

June, 1717

Every year, the _haute monde_ schemed and plotted to gain entry to the Duchesse's summer fêtes at the Château de Sceaux, but invitations were notoriously hard to come by; when Swann received that particular card in the mail, he initially assumed it to be a mistake. Of course, it was admired greatly among his English friends, and was generally beheld as a great coup (Swann's name began to come up as a man of apparently hidden talents) but he could not imagine how he had merited such a singling-out. The next time he ran across Chevalle in the company of the Duchesse explained it, but that left a much larger question to answer: what were the Vicomte's intentions?

A great many people made the mistake of assuming Swann to be unintelligent. Awkward and fussy he might be, but stupid he was not. He'd made discreet inquiries and gotten a great deal of information on Chevalle. His first impression of the man turned out to be quite correct: a nobleman with nary a serious thought in his head, his life entirely given over to the pursuit of pleasure. With playmates of both sexes.

It had been quite difficult to maintain an appearance of nonchalance, after that.

But did that mean that Chevalle was taking an interest in him? And if he was, what was to be done? He certainly knew what he wanted: Chevalle haunted his dreams, but there was his wife to consider. And his reputation. And that was leaving aside the moral questions.

Around and around went his thoughts on the subject, but sleepless nights brought him no closer to a resolution. In the end, he decided to chance it, and went to the fête with no plans, no expectations and no decisions made.

Cushions and carpets were scattered through grass in the formal gardens; the aristocratic guests sat upon them as the servants brought out an elaborate picnic nuncheon. An orchestra played as they ate, well-hidden behind the greenery. It was, in short, everything that such an event ought to be, and, once the excellent repast was completed, the Duchesse gathered her court around her.

"Now then. Today's question to be resolved: are matters of Love best handled by the rational head or the feeling heart? Choose your positions, ladies and gentlemen: those who argue for the head on my right, and those who argue for the heart on my left, and we shall debate."

Swann's eyebrows shot up, but his surprise was not echoed by the other guests; there was a general atmosphere of anticipation and merriment as his fellow revelers picked their respective sides. Feeling the insecurity creeping up on him once more, he edged towards the periphery of the gathering. Perhaps they wouldn't notice if he slipped away?

Chevalle appeared at his shoulder. "The Duchesse's gardens are quite famous. Would you care to view them with me?"

Swann beamed at his rescuer. "Gladly! They are the work of André le Nôtre, aren't they?"

"I'm afraid I don't know..." said Chevalle.

Once they were out of earshot, Swann spoke, albeit nervously. "I owe you my thanks. A discourse on the nature of love? Pah! I can't even do that in my own language."

Chevalle threw his head back and laughed. "Neither can they. They will put a great deal of effort into saying very little as beautifully as possible."

"Like courtiers everywhere," said Swann, and Chevalle laughed again.

They walked without speaking for some time. Swann had no idea what to do or what to think. He knew all too well what he wanted, and couldn't divine from Chevalle's sidelong glances whether or not he had misread the situation. Should he retreat, and give up this opportunity entirely? Should he press forward and risk total alienation from his friend? He had no idea how to seduce a man!

And, actually, now that he thought on it, he had no idea how to seduce a woman, either.

He looked straight ahead. Whatever he decided to do, he would have to do it now: they were approaching the end of the gardens, and they would have to turn around.

"I say... did you have any particular reason for having me invited here?"

"I did not invite you. The Duchesse did..." Chevalle lied.

"At your insistence, I'm sure of it - I have only met her the once, and she looks upon all things English as if they carried leprosy..."

"Indeed, you mistake her." Chevalle's face turned wary.

Damn! Swann cursed his own tongue; he was putting the man on the defensive, and he hadn't meant to do that. "Forgive me, I meant no offense... I... Good lord, I'm making a hash of it, aren't I. I'm absolute rubbish at things like this." With that, Swann gave up. He turned to Chevalle, screwed his courage to the sticking place, leaned over and kissed the man.

After a very long minute, they broke apart, breathing heavily. Swann, stunned at his own bravery, looked down to the ground. A hand slid up his neck, making him gasp, and gently pulled his chin upwards. He looked up to Chevalle, whose face had broken into a wide grin.

"Yes, Mr. Swann. I had her invite you here so that I might attempt to seduce you. But, it must be admitted, I did think I'd have to work a little harder at it than this." He leaned in closely as he said it, but before Swann could respond, Chevalle kissed him back, it must be said, much more adeptly. Chevalle dragged him off the path and out of the garden, into the unaltered woodland that surrounded the park. Once concealed, his kisses grew more intense, and his hands began to explore.

Swann moaned. This was unbelievable. It was more than he dared hope for. None of his attempts to dream about women, none of the clumsy fumblings with his wife had ever approached this intensity of sensation; this all-encompassing feeling that this was right and good and how passion was always meant to be. He dug his fingers into Chevalle's hips and pulled their bodies together with all his strength.

It was Chevalle's turn to cry out, now. He pressed back, and his fingers began to undo the buttons on Swann's waistcoat. With that, they both gave up on conscious thought for the immediate future.

----

It ended all too quickly, but that was to be expected.

"Your first time..." said Chevalle, breaking the silence.

Swann was still out of breath. "Yes. I'm sorry."

He smiled. "You needn't be. In all things, there must be a first time." Actually, Chevalle found himself to be more affected than he dared say. What Swann lacked in experience he more than made up in eagerness, and if the truth be told, Chevalle found it devastatingly erotic.

For a time, they lay together, Swann in Chevalle's arms, looking out from their hiding place through the scrim of leaves. "Will we do this again?" he asked, trying to keep the longing from his voice.

"Do you want to?" asked Chevalle.

"Very much so!"

"Then we shall," said Chevalle. "My word on it," he added with emotion, and, to cover up his own surprise, he kissed Swann once more.

July, 1717

When he'd first conceived of this affair, Chevalle had intended it to be a brief diversion. One, maybe two encounters at the most, and then to end it. But once and twice quickly turned into three and four times, and soon enough they were meeting for regular assignations.

He feared he was falling in love.

In his sophisticated set, this was very nearly fatal. One slept with someone for advancement, to settle a score, or for the sheer fun of it. To do so for love was so guileless and callow as to be very nearly against the rules.

And yet.

God only knew Swann was not the inamorato he'd always dreamed of. There was no helping the fact that he was not a very handsome man, nor did he cut a particularly fine figure, even once Chevalle talked him into visiting his own tailor. But he was charming, in his own sort of way, and congenial and kindhearted and tender. With Swann, there were no traps to watch out for, no facades to maintain, and Chevalle could not get enough of this combination. He did all he could to help Swann, even going so far as to have his man of business find a house for him in Paris (with a discreet bonus paid when one was found near his own).

But still. He was making a fool of himself over an English mooncalf. It ought to bother him, but it didn't. He was as helpless as an opium-eater in the face of this _amour_.

----

Chevalle always hosted a huge, week-long party at his country estate in the summer, to escape the July heat in the city. It was certainly no trouble to add one more to the guest list, and if that person happened to stay in the room that had the secret passage to his suite, so much the better. Oh, tongues might wag, amongst those in the know, but Chevalle was past caring.

At Chevalle's behest, the two of them slipped off one morning at first light, just as the last of the revelers from the night before were drunkenly lurching off to their beds. He led Swann down a narrow path from the back of the gardens to a hidden cove, where a small cutter lay beached. They dragged the boat into the water and boarded her.

As the grey sky turned an ethereal pink, Chevalle brought the cutter out to the open sea. Swann felt his heart well up with emotion; he had never seen anything so beautiful as the young man who guided the craft so expertly. Wearing only his shirt and breeches, Chevalle held the tiller with a steady hand and an alert eye. All his courtieresque affectations, all that lazy playboy cynicism vanished, and Chevalle appeared truly alive.

"You love the sea..." said Swann, reveling in the sight.

Chevalle gave a half-grin. "I always have. You could take away everything but this and still I would be perfectly happy." He looked off to the horizon. "You are the first I have ever brought here." His eyes returned to Swann. "The first I have ever wanted to bring here."

For once, Swann heard what was unsaid between the words, and it took his breath away. He began to kiss the man, softly at first, but with enough need that Chevalle soon dropped the anchor and they made love on the deck.

Afterwards, they rested in a tight embrace, soothed by the rocking waves. Though it nearly broke his heart to do so, Swann spoke. "My wife will be joining me soon."

A shadow seemed to fall over Chevalle's face, and his body visibly tensed. Still, he spoke softly. "I knew it would eventually be so." Silence reigned once more. "What must be done?" he finally asked, his voice unnaturally level.

"I don't know!" Swann burst out. "But I cannot simply return to the way things were! I have been so happy, these last weeks. I did not think it was possible... the genie is out of the bottle, and I don't know what to do!"

Chevalle fought a smile and his whole body exuded relief. "Then we need merely be discreet. Or do husbands in London not have lovers?"

"It's not that simple."

"It is just that simple. You English make these things much more complicated than they need to be."

"But I..."

"Sh." Chevalle placed his fingers on Swann's lips. "Let us concern ourselves with that when the time comes..."

August, 1717

It was, perhaps, this unwillingness to face the situation head-on that made them careless.

Late one night, when the two men were on the very edge of sleep, they heard a commotion downstairs. "Never mind, the servants will handle it," muttered Swann as he rolled over.

But the noise grew closer, until distinct voices could be heard. "You needn't go before me, I'm sure I can find it... my husband's bedroom is through here?" Swann's eyes went wide, but before either of them could react, the door opened and a female figure entered, carrying a candle. "Mr. Swann! I..."

Even in the dim light of the flame, they could see her blanch. Swann reacted first; he scrambled to his feet and went to her. "Mrs. Swann... I can explain..."

"Who the devil is this?" she cried out in horrified shock.

"Madame, I..." started Chevalle, but stopped as Swann, his back to his wife, silently begged him to leave. "Right now, I am _Monsieur de Trop_." He gathered up his clothing in one fell swoop and, with an apologetic look to Swann, made a break for the door.

Mrs. Swann turned her furious attention back to her husband as he turned back to her.

"I... I didn't expect you here so soon," he said, lamely.

"Clearly! God in Heaven!" Her eyes began to well up, and her voice started climbing. "Mamma told me I might expect this sort of thing. Though I did rather think it would be with a female. And that it would take more than a few months!"

"Mrs. Swann, I beg of you, believe me. I never meant to shame you…"

"I could accept this if our match had been an arrangement, but you wooed me with words of love, Mr. Swann!"

"I meant every one of them! I still do!" he said, in perfect truth.

"You swore you loved me above all others!"

"You are the most fascinating woman I have ever known."

"The most fascinating WOMAN!" She stepped up, slapped him smartly across the face, and rushed from the room.

He followed her; the servants had evidently shown her which bedroom was to be hers, as she ran in and slammed the door in his face.

"Madam, I beg of you..."

"I cannot speak to you right now! Leave me be!" she shouted through the door.

He had no other choice, and so he returned to his own room. He sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands.

----

It was a very long night for the both of them.

----

Shortly after the daybreak, though, she came back into his bedchamber. She was clad in her dressing gown, her hair unbound. Her eyes were red and swollen; she'd evidently been crying all night.

"Mr. Swann," she said dolefully, her face a mask of grief.

"Mrs. Swann. I am so sorry." He rose to greet her, and brought her to a chair.

She nodded. "Has it always been this way with you?"

He looked to the floor. "Yes. I thought it would be different, once I married. I know how foolish that sounds now..."

"In some ways, it is a relief," she said quietly. "When we were at home, I - I thought the fault lay with me. I know I am not beautiful..."

That statement cut him to the core. He took her hand. "No! Never say that, madam. You are completely faultless. This is all my folly, and I am deeply grieved that I have involved you in it."

She said nothing.

"Do you wish to return to England?" he asked finally.

"And have it whispered about that my husband prefers the company of men to me? Thank you, no."

Again, a heavy quiet fell. Swann closed his eyes. She was his wife. She was his responsibility. His duty lay with her, not with his heart. He drew in a breath and raised his chin as if he were facing a firing squad. He opened his eyes again and saw that she was studying him through unshed tears. "Madam, it was never my intention to cause you pain. I will do anything and everything that is in my power to remedy it."

She bit her lip, and swallowed a sob. "I thought of nothing else last night, and slept not at all. I cannot pretend that I am pleased with this, but nor do I wish to be the author of your unhappiness..."

A bubble of hope began to rise through the morass of fear in Swann's chest.

She continued. "I wish to bear children. Will that be an impossibility?"

He was puzzled by the abrupt shift, but answered honestly. "No, of course not. I'll do my best."

"Then I propose this: give me one night of every seven, apart from those events that we must attend together, and I will not inquire what you do with the rest of them." Tears began to spill down her cheeks again, undermining the cold reason of her words.

Hope and relief burst through his being. "You cannot mean..."

"Let me finish, or I'll never get through this. I expect the same freedom in return, once I have given you an heir, with all appropriate discretion."

He would promise her anything. "Yes, absolutely, that's only fair..."

"And I never want to see that man again. I'll be polite if it can't be avoided, but don't force me to do so under my own roof."

That was going to make things tricky, but it was so much more than he ever dared hope that he agreed. "Never. Yes. I understand." He took both her hands. "Madam, I cannot begin to express my gratitude. You have no equal in the world. I am the most fortunate man who ever lived..."

She pulled her hands away. "I must change... I must see Mrs. Pomeroy about the placement of my things. Excuse me," she said, as she went to her rooms.

He watched her go, dizzy and sick with pain and remorse and hope.

September, 1717

The weeks that followed were far from easy, but the situation began to slowly right itself as the three of them adapted to the new arrangement. Oh, there were difficulties and pitfalls, to be sure, but these were not insurmountable, not when the general will to overcome them was so strong.

And this was, after all, Paris. They were young and rich in the Civilized World's epicenter of culture and fashion. Mrs. Swann discovered that, while she might never inflame her husband's lusts, he was still the man she had known in London, and just as kind and considerate as he had been when they were courting. In point of fact, Swann went out of his way to be attentive to her, when they were together, escorting her to anything in the city she wished to attend and seeing to it her social calendar was as full as she could desire. (And indulging her in general: Swann might be inexperienced with women, but it would take a man far more witless than he not to understand that when one's wife has agreed to countenance one's, ahem, _Platonic_ lover, it does not do to stint. He gave her _carte blanche_ at the finest milliners and mantua-makers in Paris, and free run of the jewelry-shops.)

What's more, she was so very good at all that was required of a diplomatic wife, and enjoyed every minute of it. She positively revelled in the political machinations, and she had a nearly encyclopedic grasp of the histories and the motivations of the major players. They were at a ridotto at the Palace of the Tuileries when this was brought to the fore; while she was technically on his arm, she effortlessly navigated him through the crowd, greeting their acquaintances with grace and aplomb. He had only to smile and interject a semi-witty remark once in a while to be thought exceptionally clever.

"How odd..." she said to him when they strolled out to get some air. "The Duchesse du Maine seems to be spending a great deal of time with Prince de Cellamare. That's the third time I've seen them together..." She tapped her fan to her lips pensively. "I wonder if there's something between them?"

"He's a bit young for her, isn't he?"

"No, I meant politically."

He looked confused. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, she was none too pleased at d'Orleans snatching away the Regency..."

There was something about that in his briefing papers, but he was damned if he could remember. "Remind me."

"Well, when the old King died, he named the Duc du Maine as Regent, but the Duc d'Orleans had the will overturned. He said that the du Maines pressured the King into it, you see, and when it was declared invalid, d'Orleans was made Regent by the old will. He then added insult to injury by demoting Louis XIV's illegitimate children from Princes of the Blood to merely Peers of the Realm - and I don't understand that at all, but it's so very French. Why not let them keep their dignity with a meaningless title? At any rate, the Duchesse du Maine is a Princess of the Blood by birth, but since her husband is one of Louis XIV's natural sons, she's now just a Peeress of the Realm. And I can't imagine that's sitting well with her..."

Swann smiled. "You are a marvel, my dear. I don't know what I would do without you."

She returned the smile demurely, and patted his arm. "We make a good team."

----

Chevalle watched them, that night, from across the crowded room. He could not help a twinge of jealousy; he did not especially appreciate having to share, but he understood enough about his lover to know that if his lady demanded it, he would give him up. He did not wish her ill: he logically understood that it must be this way. After all, a man of prospects and fortune must have wife - there must one day be more little Swanns in the world, as there must one day be more Chevalles. (Well, besides the bastards anyway.) He could not take the place she held, and so he must be glad to see her fill it so well.

He contented himself with the knowledge that, if past nights were any indication, Swann would do his level best to make it up to him later.

---

Yes, Swann would always remember these next few months as being some of the happiest - and most exhausting - of his life. He was happily ensconced in the combined embrace of the man he loved and the woman he married and he never wanted it to end.

December, 1717

However, as all good things must...

Mrs. Swann desperately wished that the carriage could go faster, but it was imperative that anyone watching not realize that anything was amiss. When they arrived at the address, she rushed into the entry of Chevalle's lodgings.

"Pardon, madame, but his lordship is not here." Chevalle's butler tried to fob her off, but she wouldn't go.

"Please, don't. I know that he is, and that my husband is with him. It is absolutely vital that I speak to them both at once!"

The argument brought Swann and Chevalle downstairs, quite confused and both in a state of near-undress. "Mrs. Swann? What is it?" asked her husband.  
"There is an urgent matter we must discuss at this very instant," she said without prologue.

Chevalle led them to the library, and dismissed the servants.

She turned to the Vicomte. "My lord, you must leave France with all haste!"

"What!?" demanded Swann.

"But your husband said you and he had an agreement!" exclaimed Chevalle.

"What? Oh, no, that's not it at all! You are to be arrested!" She thrust the papers into his hands. "The Duc and Duchesse du Maine have been conspiring with the Spanish ambassador to overthrow the Duc d'Orleans, and make the King of Spain Regent!"  
Sick with shock, the men examined the documents Mrs. Swann brought. It was all too horribly true: Philip of Spain was Louis' uncle, and thus at least a theoretical candidate for the Regency. The du Maines, enraged at being repeatedly thwarted by the Duc d'Orleans, had thrown in their lot with Cellamare and the Spanish foreign minister, Cardinal Alberoni.

And they had conspired chiefly by means of the letters the Duchesse had asked Chevalle to carry.

"_Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_" Chevalle was reeling, and too angry to swear in English. "_La chienne! La putasse!_"

"Are you sure these are legitimate?" Swann asked his wife.

"I have no cause to doubt them..." she said, sadly.

"_C'est vrai_!" Chevalle cried. "This one is in the Duchesse's hand, and it is all too true! I acted as their agent! I thought they were intriguing in love, not in treason! I am many things, but I am not a traitor! I am a loyal subject of the King!"

Swann placed his hand firmly on Chevalle's shoulder. "Then we will fight this, and see you cleared..."

Chevalle said nothing.

Mrs. Swann cleared her throat. "Mr. Swann, you must bring this to the attention of the ambassador immediately... France now MUST join in the war against Spain, and the sooner the ambassador can pressure the Regent to declare, the better."

"I can't leave! Not now!"

There was a pause. Chevalle looked at Swann, his heart breaking. "She is right... you are correct, madame. Swann, you must go to the ambassador, and I must flee."

"NO!" cried Swann.

Chevalle shot Mrs. Swann a speaking glance, and she looked back and forth between the two men. "I'll... I'll wait outside," she said, and left the room.

"I won't let you go! I cannot!" said Swann, as soon as the door closed.

Chevalle pulled Swann into his arms and spoke quietly. "There is proof enough there to condemn me to death, and the Duc and Duchesse have powerful friends. I do not. At best, I will be imprisoned in the Bastille for years, locked away from everything I love, from everything that makes my life bearable.

"But you aren't guilty!"

"Even you are not so naive as that..."

Swann's voice grew thick. "I cannot bear it."

Chevalle certainly felt that he himself could not either, but now was not the time for such sentiments. "We knew this would end someday, did we not?"

He was right, of course, though they'd both ignored the fact as long as they could. Even now, they prolonged this moment as long as they dared. Holding each other tightly, they exchanged whispered words of love, and kisses that tasted of tears.

----

Mrs. Swann sat in the entry hall on the stairs, waiting very impatiently. Despite her position in this wobbly triangle, she mourned to see its end. She was not a cruel woman, and would have given a great deal to spare everyone involved this pain.

Her patience had very nearly run out when the two men finally re-emerged. "Come, madam. Let us go," said Swann, looking thoroughly beaten.

"Your clothes, Mr. Swann," she said gently, gesturing to his _deshabille_.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, yes. How silly of me." He hurried up the stairs to retrieve his clothing from the bedroom.

This left Chevalle and Mrs. Swann alone in the front hall for a long, awkward moment.

"I owe you a great debt, madame," Chevalle eventually said.

"You owe me many great debts," replied Mrs. Swann, in accentless French.

He bowed his head briefly, accepting the point. "This is quite true, but it must be said: there are many wives who would have been glad to see me publicly humiliated, were they in your shoes," he replied in kind.

She pursed her lips. "I suspect that's what the person who gave me these papers thought. And don't think I didn't consider it."

"Then why did you...?"

She paused, and fiddled with the fit of her gloves as she answered. "It would have wounded him so, to witness that."

Chevalle stared up the stairs for a moment. He turned and bowed to her. "Your worth is beyond rubies, madame," he said, for once truly meaning the extravagant compliment.

"Your blandishments won't work on me, Monsieur le Vicomte," she said, though not unkindly.

He laughed bitterly. "Not 'Monsieur le Vicomte' anymore, I think. Now it is 'Chevalle the Penniless Frenchman.'"

She raised her eyebrow. "That sounds like a pirate's name."

Before he could reply, Swann returned. He looked at Chevalle as if wishing to imprint every last detail of the man's face into his memory, and then he and his wife disappeared into the night.

Epilogue - August, 1745

They fished Beckett out of the deep, half-drowned and tangled in a sodden EITC flag. The crewmen roughly threw him down on the deck before Chevalle. The soggy man did not present a very imposing figure, bruised and bloodied as he was, but all Great Neptune's ocean could not wash that supercilious sneer from his face.

"Chevalle," said Beckett, once he had finished coughing up seawater.

"Lord Beckett," replied Chevalle. He stared down at his enemy with unconcealed loathing.

"You may think your gang of rabble has won but let me assure you, this fight has not ended. It would do you much better to be on my good side."

"You certainly may threaten and bluster, little man. I have dozens and dozens of reasons to kill you, but now I find I have one question that must be answered." Chevalle crossed his arms. "Tell me, did you order the murder of Governor Weatherby Swann?"

For the briefest of moments, Beckett looked surprised, but his smooth manner reasserted itself. "And if I did?

Chevalle nodded, seeing in Beckett's derision his answer. "Tell me, Lord Beckett, are you at all familiar with the Holy Inquisitions of Spain and Portugal?"

Again, that fleeting look of surprise. "Of course. But - "

Chevalle held up his hand and stopped him short. "They were known for refining their understanding of torture to the point that they could make a man confess to anything, anything at all to stop the pain. I have always felt such brutality to be base and unsporting, but it cannot be argued that it has its uses. I have a man in my crew who has devoted his life to the study of the Inquisition's methods."

If Beckett felt fear, it didn't show on his face. "And what do you expect me to do? Tell you all my secrets? Because I can assure you, no matter what your thug can contrive, I won't gratify you with any information."

"You're right, Lord Beckett. It won't get you to talk." He leaned down to Beckett, and gave him a feral smile. "Because there is nothing you can say that will end your torment." He stood up straight, and turned to his crewmen. "Take him below."

----

**Author's Notes:**

The Duc and Duchesse du Maine, the Prince de Cellamare, Cardinal Alberoni and Antoine Watteau were all real people, as was the Duc d'Orleans. The du Maines actually did conspire with Cellamare to overthrow the Duc d'Orleans; it's known in the history books as the Cellamare Conspiracy. They were caught, captured and exiled for a few years, and Cellamare was sent back to Spain. (You can also read more about it, as I discovered, in the novel La Chevalier d'Harmental (or Love and Conspiracy, in English) by Dumas _père_.

"The Pilgrimage to Cythera" is one of Watteau's most famous paintings, and really was debuted in 1717 – but in August, not May. A painting on the fragile and fleeting nature of Love was entirely too good to pass up, so, in my world, Watteau got his act together a few months earlier.


End file.
